


Normal

by A_Candle_For_Sherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Couples' Therapy, Established Relationship, Holding Hands, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, learning how to be brave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 17:22:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12040638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Candle_For_Sherlock/pseuds/A_Candle_For_Sherlock
Summary: Written for an anonymous Tumblr prompt: "The first time John and Sherlock holds hands in public."





	Normal

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Нормальный](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12349278) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



The first time they hold hands in public is a chilly Wednesday. Sherlock wakes John unmercifully, with a cold nose stuck directly into John’s warm, sweaty armpit. John always sweats when he sleeps, and Sherlock’s digits and ears and nose are always freezing past September.

John comes awake with a shudder and a yell, and there’s a moment’s tussle that ends in John pinning Sherlock down in the musky sheets and kissing him, hard, and then muttering, “Toilet,” and getting out of bed quickly. He has a kind of duck-waddle shuffle-walk he employs when he needs the loo badly, which Sherlock finds endlessly entertaining. He watches him go; lies back and stretches himself out slowly, arms, legs, full body stretch and twist, with a yawn; he’s been awake for an hour, but content to lie still and listen to John breathe, and watch the dawn fill the room, and think.

A week ago, in couples’ therapy, John had said, “I wish I could be normal in public with him.”

“Define normal,” was Ella’s response.

“Normal! Kiss hello, kiss goodbye, hold hands in the Park. Make eyes at him in restaurants. Normal, a couple. But when I try–-” He’d stopped, and Sherlock had noted the sudden tremble of his hand.

“It’s all right,” he’d said, knowing that John might believe it, coming from him. “Whatever it is, you're not guilty.”

Ella had told them that over and over, that there wasn’t any right or wrong when it came to how they felt. Feelings just _are_. John had snorted, openly dismissive, but the idea had stuck in Sherlock’s mind.

“That’s true,” Ella had said. John shook his head.

“I want to give him a kiss, take his hand, but then I start to think horrible thoughts.”

“Only in public?”

“Yeah. Huh, yeah.” A little relief in his eyes, at that.

“Can you tell us what they’re like?”

“I–-” He’d given Sherlock a look that begged for forgiveness. “Queer, fairy, fag. Couple of queers, asking for a beating. God–-” He’d been near tears, John, who never cries where anyone can see him. “I don’t believe that. I don’t.”

“John.” Ella always sounded the same, slow and interested and unruffled. It had bothered Sherlock at first. “I’m sure you don’t. Our first thought is the one we’ve been conditioned to have, do you understand? It’s the one we’ve absorbed from someone else. The answering thought is your own. What is your answering thought?”

“That I love him, and I’m proud of him, and I wish I could hold his goddamned hand.” John had been snarling, suddenly, and the tears had receded. Sherlock had dared to reach across and lay a hand on his knee.

“So why do you suppose it’s still so difficult to do it? If that’s what you really want?”

“I don’t know! That’s why I’m asking you!” It was almost a shout. Ella had nodded.

“If it's not the thoughts, is it a feeling that's stopping you?”

“What?”

“Shame at being seen? Anxiety, that Sherlock will think less of you?”

“No, it’s–-” He’d hesitated, turning inward, searching himself. After a long moment, he’d looked up, startled, comprehending. “It’s fear of going soft. It’s–-it makes no goddamned sense, but I’m scared that–-God, I’m afraid that I won’t be able to protect him. If I'm becoming the kind of man who’d hold a man’s hand on the street. That kind of sentimental, soft--lacking sense. Unaware--That I'll be useless if someone decides to go after us while my guard's down. But that’s–-” He’d stopped again. Revelation is a beautiful look on John. “That’s nonsense, I don’t believe that.”

“Good, John. More.”

“I don’t actually think it makes me less of a man to want that. I don’t even think we’re going to get jumped in the streets. Maybe we would have, in secondary, but not–-it’s not likely now, not anymore, and that’s a risk, the way we live, anyway. Someone could come after us for any number of reasons. I might as well add another and hold his hand, then, right? I might as well. I will.”

He’d turned to Sherlock, embarrassed and determined and shining with certainty, and Sherlock had almost flinched back from him.

“Sherlock,” said Ella. “You look uncomfortable. What are you thinking?”

“I don’t want him to.” His voice had been steady, but only just.

“What?” John, sharply.

“I–-it scares me, too.” He hadn’t thought about this, hadn’t examined his own reasons for reticence, but it had become quite clear, suddenly. “I liked our privacy.”

“Why?” Ella watched him, untroubled, waiting.

“I put him in danger. I–-because I care for him, because I–-love him.” Saying it aloud still felt strange. “They go after him. To get to me. He’s not safe with me.”

“That isn’t new,” Ella had observed, after a moment’s silence. “Your life together has never been safe.”

“I wouldn’t want it to be,” John had said, suddenly, softly. “I don’t need to be safe. I need you.”

The breath had left him. I need you. John had never said that, just that, exactly, and all at once things feel entirely, perfectly clear for one minute, at least, and he had said, “All right.” They’d stared at each other.

“All right,” Ella had echoed him, and smiled, just a little.

Now he hears the water turn on, and John singing in the bath, off-key, something he remembers hearing on the radio in uni. They have plans: brunch, at the new place down the road. He’ll need to be at least minimally put-together. He puts on pants and silk socks and a decent pair of trousers, buttons up a soft blue shirt that makes John stroke his shoulders; runs his hands through his hair, once, twice, looking at himself in the mirror. There’s a little smile on his face he hadn’t noticed. He pads into the kitchen and gets a cup of water, rinses out his mouth; goes into the sitting room, does up his shoes. Picks up his violin and plays, little mindless ripples of music, like running water.

A hand on his shoulder; John, damp and warm, in a wool pullover, with gentle eyes. He sets down the violin; kisses John’s forehead, beneath the fringe, and breathes him in for a moment. John sighs.

They go down the stairs together, a familiar rhythm, John just behind, Sherlock pulling on his scarf; step out into the cold, bright, London morning and close the door firmly behind them, and John takes Sherlock’s hand.


End file.
